even socialize with men.” She laughed once more. “Of course, that rather goes with the job.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have a husband?” I asked, amazed.
“Oh, I’m happy enough! I have a good husband, even if one that’s absentminded and covered in gritty marble dust. There are worse fates to befall a woman, dear boy, much, much worse. And every day I thank the Goddess Hera that I have what I have. A girl’s father decides whom she will marry, and it’s the luck of the draw, my son, what husband a woman gets. He might treat her well, he might beat her, though if he beats her and the neighbors know of it he might be excluded from public office until he behaves better, but that’s the only punishment for a wife beater.”
I think I must have gone quite white.
“It’s not so bad, dear. The women, after all, are in charge at home, whatever the men might think. The slaves work for me, not your father.” She paused. “I have spoken freely with you, perhaps more freely than a woman should, but I’ve done so because you are a grown man now, my son, and when the time comes for you to marry, I wish you to remember what I have said about the lot of a woman.”
“I will,” I promised. “You shocked me, Mother, when you said you’d been midwife at Diotima’s birth. You’ve been called out to so many births, but somehow I’ve never thought of the babies you deliver as being real people. I’ve never met one before.”
“You’ve met several; you just didn’t know it. They’re all real people, Nicolaos, all those babies, even the ones that are exposed.”
“What happens to them?” Exposing babies was something everyone knew happened, but no one ever talked about.
“The ones that the father doesn’t want? They die, for the most part; rarely a passerby will take an abandoned baby to raise as a slave. But most are stuffed into clay pots and left, still crying, at the cemetery by the Dipylon Gate. Some are thrown down old wells. The babe is killed by cold, or hunger, but not directly by the father, so the Gods won’t hold him responsible. The baby just cries and cries, until eventually there’s silence.” Phaenarete’s voice was harsh and it was obvious who she held responsible.
This conversation was making me squirm, but, having started it, I was determined to finish. “Have you ever…”
“Killed a baby I delivered?” She grimaced. “Never a healthy one. I wouldn’t dare offend Eireithya, the Goddess who controls childbirth. What might she do to the next baby I had to deliver, if I killed one that she allowed live? No, I leave the killing to the men.”
A sudden thought came to me, a startling one I’d never had before. “Uh, Mother, did you…or rather, did Father…that is, did Socrates and I…ever have a sister?”
Phaenarete said, her voice firm, “No, you never have, Nicolaos. And if you had, she would be with us now. Your father has never been so poor that we could not feed another mouth.”
I’d been sure that would be the answer, but I was surprised how relieved I was to hear my mother say it.
Phaenarete sent two men to fetch water from the nearby well, and ordered the girls to sweep out the public rooms. As the slaves left for their duties she said, “One thing I’ll tell you, my son: I know it’s important for you to find Ephialtes’ killer, but I saw him prepared to let a little girl die, and I’m not sorry he’s dead.”
11
The funeral procession began at dusk, as is the tradition, so that Apollo the Sun God would not be offended by the sight of the dead man. I would have attended the funeral in any case, to see the reactions of everyone involved, but with Diotima as one of the main actors I had a double reason to be there.
I stood outside the house of Ephialtes, among many men. They had come to pay their respects, or perhaps they had simply come to see the fun. I knew some men were laying bets there would be a riot at this funeral. Pythax obviously thought so: he had Scythians grouped in pairs throughout the crowd. He and I caught each other’s eyes. I nodded, Pythax looked away.
The door opened, and Stratonike stepped outside, wearing a dark shift and walking barefoot. She was a thin woman, almost bony, and her face was drawn; her hair was cropped and untidy, but that of course was as it should be for a woman in mourning. Her eyes were a little wild and she looked back and forth, as if she couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening.
A woman stood to each side of Stratonike, and I knew these must be her nurses. They were large, middle- aged, and appeared strong. They weren’t Hellene; perhaps they were sturdy mountain stock from Thrace. They would be slaves for sure; no free woman would willingly do their job. I wondered why a man like Ephialtes would have kept Stratonike when he could surely have disposed of her and married elsewhere.
Diotima stepped through the doorway, dressed as Stratonike was in a dark shift. I saw that sometime since I last saw her she had taken shears to her hair, which now was ragged and short.
With the body about to leave, libations were to be poured to cleanse the entire building. A nurse dipped a cup into the urn that I had used days ago to purify myself, and pressed it into Stratonike’s hand. She looked as if she was about to drink it, but the nurse grabbed her hand and gently turned it until the water fell into the dust. The nurse said something and encouraged Stratonike to repeat her words.
Diotima stepped forward with a face set like stone and dipped her cup into the urn. She spoke the words of the ritual in a clear voice, calling for the house to be cleansed of evil. She too spilled the cleansing water upon the doorstep.
Now Pericles, Archestratus, Rizon, and men I didn’t know walked inside, and emerged with the bier. They laid the body upon a wagon that had been dressed in black. The crowd was completely silent. Stratonike, held by the nurses, waited behind while Diotima stepped to the fore carrying a jar of libations. Rizon stepped to the fore too, carrying a spear. Diotima was surprised by this, and went to Rizon and took hold of the spear in its middle.
He refused to let go, though I could see her tugging. They had words while the crowd watched, said low so no one else could hear, but there was no doubt in my mind what was happening. The spear represented vengeance for the man who had died by violence; it was always carried before the body of a murder victim, and Diotima was quite certain that she and not her future husband was going to carry the burden. This was so far beyond reason that most of the crowd didn’t understand what was happening.
I think Rizon realized he was starting to be the centerpiece of a very public show. He let go in order to avoid a spat at his first public appearance as the heir of Ephialtes. I smiled, realizing something he probably did not: he had also acquiesced to his future wife in public and at their first ever meeting, a precedent I was quite sure Diotima had knowingly engineered. She had made two important points in one action.
Diotima set off, carrying the libations in one hand and the spear in the other. The musicians hadn’t been expecting the abrupt start. They were slow to commence playing, so that Diotima was well on her way before the crowd could follow. The procession wound its way through the streets of Athens to the cemetery by the Dipylon Gate, mourners wailing and tearing at their hair.
Diotima led us through the gates of the cemetery and up the path to the place where the pyre had been raised. The same men who had loaded the body onto the cart now removed it, and placed it upon the wooden platform; a path had been cleared for them through the kindling and old wood.
Diotima took items from a bag and placed them around the body. I saw a stylus and a scroll, no doubt his favorite. She took a torch and circled the pyre, then lowered the torch to the tinder. The flames rose quickly.
Stratonike had been watching all this standing between the protective arms of her nurses, her face slack and uncaring, as if she were almost infinitely bored. Now she reacted as the flames reached up to her husband. She turned swiftly to one nurse, then the other. She was saying something I couldn’t hear. One nurse said something to her gently.
Stratonike laughed, great gutfuls of loud raucous laughter that carried across the crowd. This was a terrible omen. The nurse said something urgently, then ordered her to be quiet loud enough that we could all hear it. Stratonike continued to laugh. The nurse slapped her, once, twice, across the face, to shut her up. But Stratonike kept on laughing and laughing, and the nurse kept on hitting until the laughter turned to screeching and then screams of fear. She began to shout, “No! No! He’s coming back, he’s coming back!”
